Saturday, August 09, 2008
A Gallow Birthday to me: Dark tea time for the soul.
"It's my party but I'm waiting for someone to start it. It's my party but there's blood on the ceiling, the carpet!" ~ Peeping Tom, Mojo
It's that time of the year again. Now, since my first birthday, the tradition's been for me to go out and ring the big bell in front of my isolated house on the hill. And once again, that's exactly what I did. The amount of times I ring the bell is in correspondence with my age. So today, I rang it twenty three times. You can do the math to guess how old I am. Normally, an over eager news crew invades my house and trepan me for any brain juice containing thoughts on birthdays, life, and death. Ironically, I always hear that the people who come to ask me about my life end up dead. This year, however, I waited day and night for them to come, but nobody showed up. I even wanted to throw them a party, which, believe me, is pretty out of the ordinary. I had everything, arsenic cake, anti-freezies, toe-nail cheesies, cyanide cider, and mouldy pizza. I had maggot confetti, bowel balloons, and even a human pinata. The pinata was the hardest to come by, I had to find a dwarf who would let me stuff him full of candy and suspend with a meat hook for people to beat open. I rented a clown who told me he wanted to be the next John Wayne Gacy, I even had a tub of glue made from a pony I rented five years earlier. Nothing though, nobody came. I had to eat the cake all on my own, share cigarettes with Pedo The Clown, and constantly tell him that I didn't invite anyone under the age of eighteen over. He then asked me if any of them had children.
It was only a matter of time before I grew tired of him, slit his throat and stuffed his penis (which turned out to be a balloon folded into the shape of one) down his throat. People like that disgust me. They should be kept as far away from children as possible, put in registries where everybody in the neighbourhood knows who they are, given pink vests in prison, and given gas which rots their flesh. Clowns are the scum of the earth. Jorge the dwarf complained about his back, so I busted him open and snacked on the candies which came raining out of every bloody gash.
Now it's normally a journalist's job to prod me for my thoughts on this, that, and whatever but nobody came. So I guess today you'll just get it straight from the source, no filters. People tend to interpret me in all sort of ways, so news you get of me is probably highly distorted. I will give you the opportunity to misperceive me for yourself. A one time offer, my friends.
So I'm twenty three. I sure don't feel it. For quite some time, I've been a cross of a five year old, and a fifty year old. I suppose I will never feel my age until I do turn fifty. And even then it'll probably be something else. I'll probably think I'm twenty five and start buying sports cars, leave my wife (if I dare to get married) and casually copulate with Korean super-models and dominatrixes. Or the notch might get turned back even further and I may find myself in a crib, in a diaper, drooling all over myself. Only time will tell. Till then, and until death, I live day by day trying to make some sense out of this thing. Though the answer I almost always come back to is that it makes no sense, and that people try to make sense out of it with delusions such as fairy tales, work, relationships, and politics which are all fine and good with me.
I wish I was never conceived though I sure don't wish I were dead. So I'll occupy myself with things to make it all go down that much easier. I do wish to accomplish more, shoot for the sky, and, as my emotionally distant and out of touch father often tells me - not deceive myself. Though I guess that's exactly what I am doing anyway, by pretending any of this means something and enjoying it. Ambivalence is a splendid thing. A life of apathy would just be vacuous.
It seems that a lot of my life has to do with dwelling on death. Not that I am a death monger, even though I am a staunch supporter of abortions, euthanasia, and the death penalty. But I often find humour in certain deaths which I find ironic or absurd, I often contemplate the ramifications of the deaths or pending deaths of others, and I am always curious about how I and when I'll die and what I will accomplish before that. I want to live long, but only if I have my dignity, though sometimes I wonder if I should try to live as long as I can, even being reduced to nothing but a mound of flesh connected to a melange of machinery just so I can say I outlived my enemies and detractors. But I often think of immortality as being utterly boring. There is only so much somebody can enjoy out of life. After a while, you'd just want to spend eternity banging your head against a wall.
I can't say I get why the idea of heaven appeals to people. An eternity of lobotomized bliss? I'll pass. Eternal tabula rasa is more my kind of thing. I have to say, that as a Christian, I did enjoy the idea of believing the people I didn't like would roast in hell while I sat in heaven sipping pina coladas, but I don't need that sort of satisfaction anymore. I can just give them hell on earth.
Oh! Someone's at the door!
See everyone in hell!
